Monthly Archives: September 2012

Friday@Flore with the IHT

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Earlier this week my friend from Out and About Paris contacted to let me know that the International Herald Tribune was celebrating its 125 anniversary, and for the fête, they’ve invited readers to post photos of themselves reading the IHT where ever they happen to be. Then they gave suggestions, “Is that you reading the IHT at Café de Flore in Paris?”

 

 

 

OMG, she texted (not a direct quote, she is far more sophisticated in her discourse) you have GOT to do this for Friday@Flore. Et voilà an idea was born.

If you have not yet noticed, I am still kind of shy about asking people to actually stop so that I can take their picture. It chalk it up to a nasty experience involving me, my Nikon, a Masai warrior and his spear. I brought along two models from home, bribing them with free coffee and maybe a croissant if they were good.

And they were very good, reading their paper, discussing a fold out on The Art of Collecting for the Biennale des Antiquaires that is coming to the Grand Palais this weekend and drooling over the full page Longines ad, sporting the photo of the actor from the tv show, The Mentalist.

 

I had really wanted to show that is was the Flore, but for the first time in ages, it was not raining and the awning was drawn. Time for a better angle, which inspired me to approach these two rather dapper Parisiens and ask them to put down their papers (Le Monde et La Libération) to read the IHT for a minute or so. The both complied kindly and I felt that warrior ghost of mine take a strategic step backwards.

Of course, there are more important men at the Café de Flore, so I asked ‘my’ server to be part of the show. He was thrilled to comply, but his co-server was a bit disgruntled that we had not asked him. In the end, everyone had to have their turn!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I started thinking of the servers and when the first garçon may have spied an American catching up on international news with his IHT, which is when I learned that the two institutions were founded in 1887. They’re both turning 125 this year!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY IHT and the Café de Flore!!!

 

 

Les ados…

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French Jr moved in this week. Its a temporary arrangement as he changes flats, which is something of a shock to the system for all of us. He’s sleeping on the couch, in the living room, just 1.5 meters from my desk, which explains why it is currently 10am and I am still holed up in my bed, computer propped on my knees, trying to sort the sheets of paper from the linen sheets.

It can’t be easy for him, especially when Mr French and I head into the kitchen for our breakfast, turning on lights and clanging around pots before the sun has yet risen. And it is somewhat surreal for my two girls who have never really lived with a boy before. Two teenaged girls who must now share a bathroom with a boy. A hip 22 year old boy.

Day 1 – I go into their bathroom and find not one, not two, but THREE pairs of thong underwear that somehow never found their way into the laundry bin.

“Girls” I shout, “come put your panties away.”
“Relax, its not like anyone is going to see them!”
“Oh yeah, and Jr? You don’t mind Jr seeing your itsy bitsy, teeny weenies?”

3 nanoseconds later the bathroom is spotless, the panties gone, zit creams hidden and sanitary items put in their proper drawers, instead of left in a box on the floor. I can see that I am going to enjoy this.

Day 2 – Mr French has a business dinner and I’m headed out to test Le Grand Pan (excellent btw) with a girl friend. The three kids have dinner together. Later that night, after yelling at the girls for not having taken care of their dinner dishes, I ask them how the evening had gone.
“Horrid,” replied one or the other. “We couldn’t watch a show, or, like, do anything. We just had to sit there and talk. So annoying” Films during mealtime are forbidden, as is singing at the table or dancing on the chairs, but they seem to forget this at every meal so dinner is often a chorus of “No singing at the table”. I’m considering giving the new situation an FB Like.

Last night – We book the tickets to visit E in Chicago this October. M is thrilled and starts packing immediately. There is a moment of total panic when she realizes her leather jacket is missing. I have two younger sisters, lived in University dorms and M is my second daughter. I don’t exactly go into panic mode over missing accessories, unless they are my own. A few phone calls later and she remembers it had been lent to T who accidentally left it at E’s, so E brought it home and it is now at N’s.

I’ve had enough, so I head up the hall into the living room where Jr is deeply invested in his social media. M comes tearing after me. “Moooooooomm, it’s  CA-Ta-strophe!!! We’re going to have to get me some new bras in the US, haven’t you noticed, look my boobs have grown.”

The next sound in the house was a short, dry “Oh” followed by the scurry of mortified footsteps heading back down the hall. Je suis mdr.*

* I am mort de rire (dying with laughter)

dys-fonctionnaires

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Right now, I am sitting in the offices of the Caisse d’Allocation Familial. These are the folks who give out subsidies to families with children, and help students pay their rent. We’re a motley lot; foreigners, people with handicaps and single moms. The woman at the ‘welcome’ desk is yelling at everyone as they come through the door, putting all her energy into turning us away. I am one of the fortunate ones; well educated, a proper breakfast in my stomach, and two kids safe at school. With decent prospects, I have plenty of confidence for the arguing and bullying required. Being very persistent, I am given a deli ticket. It is not golden, but it gives me the right to wait my turn and speak with someone who may actually be able to help.

At most of the places I visited this week: the tax authority, city hall and social security, there is a very similar UNwelcome desk, where a ‘host’ does everything possible to convince you that you are in the wrong place, missing certain essential documents and would be doing everyone a favor if you’d just leave. It is one of the most frustrating aspects to living in France.

I used to take it personally: it was my fault and I had to arrive better prepared. I was very relieved last spring when the über cool, totally French Ioudgine blogged about the 146 days she wasted unsuccessfully trying to get the local tax authorities to correct their own computer error so that she could actually PAY her taxes.

Its not as easy as it sounds. For example, you almost always need a phone, gas, or electricity bill that is less than 3 months old and has your name spelled correctly with an address that is the exact same as the one where you claim to live. But I no longer have a land line and our building is gas-free. This leaves the electric company, which has misspelled both of our names, and has the address they use to access our building, not the mailing address I need to use for administrative purposes. With an annual plan, I only receive a bill once a year, anyway.

So I wait patiently at the CAF, caressing my worry beads to the mantra, “thank god for Photoshop” and I breath. My number is called, the visit is brief and I leave the office with a pre-printed list of additional documents they require. This list is different from the one they mailed to my home that had me coming to the office to begin with and I am only here because they want to “regularize” my situation. Which, actually, does not involve them because they don’t give me anything and I have asked for nothing. Urgh….

The bright side to all of this is that I am convinced its the reason the French invented champagne and perfected chocolate. We need it!!

Take that, bunny!

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Yesterday, Benoît left me a bunny, which is how the French say, “I was stood up!*” Benoît is was my bricoleur. He has a day job in construction and would come to my home evenings or weekends to work as a handyman. Yesterday he was meant to be hanging curtain rods, fixing closet doors and removing a radiator. Instead, he stayed home nursing a hangover. I had gotten rid of the girls, borrowed tools and risen early on a Sunday morning. I was vex-éd.
Mr French was not exactly thrilled either. It had been a gorgeous Saturday and Sunday looked even better. Normally we’d already be on our way to the beach for an early morning run. Or we’d have spent the night in the countryside. Of course, when he mentioned this I was only more vex-éd.
AND I shouldn’t have been home at all! I should have been running the 6km La Parisienne race. I’d been training all summer and was keen to beat my personal best record, but my fall at Fashion Night Out had put the kebosh on all that. So I was even more vex-éd than called for.
The thought of spending an absolutely gorgeous Sunday afternoon in Paris with a severely annoyed woman did not seem like a good plan. Mr French jumped into action. “Get out the isotherm bags, we’re going on a pique nique.”

Yes, I know, in Paris, you imagine charming woven market baskets, which is exactly what I have. But Mr French is very into temperature control, so we use those practical, horribly un-romantic isotherms when he is in charge. Fortunately, this doesn’t happen often.
I complied then scurried off to get dressed while he took care of the feast. 20 minutes later the car was packed, the top was down and we were off for Versailles. Not the chateau, but the town, with its fabulous Sunday market where I have a rather serious crush on the mushroom lady. But we wouldn’t be visiting her today. We already had our picnic. So I was really confused when he parked and headed her way.
Just as we hit the market, he made a sharp right turn into what looked like a private courtyard et voilà…. there was a tiny collection of vintage shops selling canes, postcards, French fashion and even some serious antiques from timber framed shops built in the 1670’s. We spent an hour combing through the treasures as I fantasized about buying a queen carrier. That’s not the official name, but several shops had those large boxes, with a seat for one inside, windows around the top 1/3 and large metal clasps for pole bearers to use for transporting nobility across the palace grounds. They’re called sedan chairs (thanks Google) and I could just see the lines of clamouring tourists scrambling to pay a small fortune to ride one through the Tuilleries gardens. And then I thought of Benoît and employees who don’t show, and my stomach started growling and I was ready to head to the chateau grounds even if Mr French was not willing to carry me there.

 

*Il m’a posé un lapin (espèce de con may be added for some local color)

Friday@Flore / Fashion Night Out

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Vogue Fashion Night Out started with a long trip. That is, me, flying across the paved sidewalk in front of the Elysées Palace as the police prepared for the president’s arrival. My large SLR Canon flew out of my bag and I landed with full force on one knee. Several men dressed in a white version of this uniform came scurrying to my aid as E scraped me off the pavement and I tried to disappear in shame. They were a bit concerned, the presidentwas on his way, and there I sat, blood spurting from knee. They offered to bring me inside and clean me up, but I was too embarrassed. Can you imagine being too embarrassed to jump at a chance of a quick peek into the President’s palace? I was. And I was late to meet my friends Out and About In Paris and EllaCoquine for Fashion Night OUT!!!

Being the Mom, I coerced E into wearing her Grandmére’s 1956 Paris (not haute) couture dress. Stunning, chic and shockingly modern, n’est-ce pas? Since the ladies were no where to be seen I hobbled across the street where the gorgeous girls at Lancôme gave me a quick knee-cial, cleaning up the scrape. And then we were ready to go..

Another kid, with a much cooler mom, was lovin’ his hippy chic moment, posing for every camera that passed.

 

 

 

 

The men looked absolutely fabulous… even the one’s who had had no idea it was Fashion Night Out!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the shoes are what fascinated me, so we followed them to Roger Vivier, where we came upon none other than the queen of Parisienne chic herself… Mme de la Fressange.

The room was full of people wearing their Thursday night best, looking fabulous as they enjoyed the live music, free drinks and tempting snacks. The staff looked like they were having as much fun as the rest of us.

blurry shot... I blame the champagne

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Liquered up and ready for adventure, we headed out the door and up the Faubourg Saint Honoré where some fashion models were drawing a crowd. I’ll let you imagine how much of a crown and which model was stopped by police and asked to head back into the boutique she was working for….

 

 

ps… these lucky girls got our invitation to use for the rest of the night, as we headed home early.

Mightier than the sword

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La Dolce Vita

 

Like any good soldier, I pay great attention to my weapons, and being a writer, that would be my pen. I love my writing tools.

As a blogger, I depend mostly on high tech tools, like the iPad, which fits perfectly into all my bags and seems to have been made for the Parisian café culture. I love it. To a point. Because, as cool as it is, it is missing the art and the beauty of the written word. There is nothing more luxurious than having the time to sit in a Paris café, take out one’s pen and begin to right on a smooth, lovely paper. And there is really nothing like going to the mailbox and finding a long, handwritten note among the stack of bills.

The French take their pens pretty seriously. In grade school children are expected to learn proper penmanship, using a fountain pen. This is not a quirky little habit of the über rich, it is required by the public school system and It is a big deal when your child gets his/her first fountain pen at about 7 years of age. Lamy makes some really great “starter pens” (12.90€) for young students that are wooden, not terribly expensive, easy to handle and easy to replace at just about any corner stationary store as your kid looses first one, and then the other, and another, and… As the kids get older, they tend to stick with Lamy for school, graduating to the brighter, sleeker models that many adults like. I assume that they pick them up when replacing the umpteenth Lamy lost by le petit.

Beyond the school yard, its a wide, open field full of fun, fantasy pens. If you look beyond the Lamy section at any tabac or stationary store, like the one by the artist Ben (12.99€), in his signature black, with witty French sayings like, “Write between the lines.” Or trés fille fille Inès de la Fressange models (15€) with graphic flowers and a modern touch.

 

Being deprived all the fun fashion accessories available to us ladies, les garçons tend to get very serious about their pens (and watches, but that is another article altogether). Mr French loves shopping at Mora on the rue de Tournon in the 6th, a traditional family business where you can find the latest models, as well as an excellent selection of vintage pens from the most respected houses like Waterman, Pélikan and SJ Dupont (70€ on up…).

As for me, in 1992 I had a very nasty accident involving a leather purse and a leaky fountain pen. The ink won and I have been a strictly ball point girl ever since. I recently developed a somewhat unhealthy attachment to a Delta, Dolce Vita (195€). The pen is the perfect shade of orange to go with my collection. It comes from Italy and it is an absolute delight in hand; perfectly weighted, ideally balanced and wonderfully smooth to the touch. Now if only it could do some of my writing for me…

Da king…

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While in Botswana the manager of San Camp, Mercedes, served pili pili ho ho, a Kenyan hot sauce made from chili peppers and gin. As much as I love French cuisine, I miss some heat, and I loved it so much that she shared the recipe. As soon as I returned, I needed to see a man about some peppers. A visit to the Saint Denis market was required.

At the market I treated myself to an ear of roasted corn and some oriental pastries dripping with honey. A holiday for my taste buds. Happily sated and the peppers safely in my bag, I took some time to visit the famous Basilique de Saint Denis, where the French buried their Kings and Queens. I hadn’t been in probably 25 years and on my previous visit I had not realized that this is where Dagobert had been laid to rest.

Miss Marie

Dagobert was the first king to be buried in the Basilique Saint Denis, sometime around the year 640. Ha was considered to be a good king and he made something of an impression on popular culture. Such an impression, in fact, that today 1400 years after his birth, in pre-schools across the globe, little French children sing about the Good King Dagobert who put his panties on inside out. He also had holes at his elbows, in his tights and was so filthy the grime looked like a beard growing on his face. Thankfully he had his good buddy Saint Eloi to point out all his little short comings and to give him the shirt off his back; along with the tights, the soap, and the money to replace whatever he needed. Its a long song. Dagobert needed a lot of help and Saint Eloi was a great sport, although I am not sure how he responded to Dagobert’s request to take his place by the devil’s side for eternity. The king’s privilege should only go so far….

Pili pili ho ho; fill a bottle with chili peppers, cover it to the top with gin, then let it sit for 6 months. Add dry sherry as needed.

Le Bon Roi Dagobert

 

 

Stepsister syndrome

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Every girl has them… the pair of utterly gorgeous, to-die-for, more expensive than she ever should have spent of a pair shoes that are sitting in her closet mocking her. Perhaps they were a sale too good to pass up, or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the attempt to console a broken heart, or a lovely gift. Whatever the reason, these incredibly fantastic, dreamy shoes sit there and mock because as wonderful as they are, the girl can’t wear them. Like one of the evil step sisters, the magic slippers simply don’t fit, they are too small, or too tight, too high, or too outrageous to ever actually be worn. It breaks her heart.

I got my stepsister shoes quite innocently. We were preparing for NYC last May when I mentioned to Mr French that I did not have any decent walking flats for our trip. We were on the rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré running an errand at the time, and just as I said this, he noticed a fantastic antique mirror inside a shop. I didn’t have time to warn him that it was not an antique boutique before he was inside, with the intent to shop. We were in a shoe store. And not just any shoe store, it was THE shoe store, it was Roger Vivier.

Heading upstairs to see more of the design, Mr French soon started looking at the shoes and one thing led to another and before I knew it we were walking out the door with an Audrey Hepburn worthy masterpiece in python skin. The shoes fit. Perfectly. In the shop.

That Monday I shared my acquisition with the Yoga Yenta, telling her that I had some gorg new walking shoes for NYC.

A killer silhouette

“Oh no,” she moaned “try them first, Sylvia, I have a pair and after ten minutes that signature buckle of his digs a hole into my foot.”

I did not believe her, but I listened, wearing them on a quick errand to the dry cleaners. 10 minutes later I was home and my feet were bleeding; in three different places. I took them back to the shop and they were sent out to be stretched. I tried them again. This time only one area suffered, on top where the buckle digs in with each step, just as the YY had warned. I don’t blame Roger. I see numerous chic Parisiennes sauntering through the city streets with his iconic buckle. I blame it on my peasant ancestry and stubby toes. The shoe won’t fit. Its devastating.

Of course, I mean this in a relative way. No one is sick, and my life is pretty great without new shoes, but this was a pretty extravagant dream purchase and the shoes are now destined to sit in my closet well within my grasp, yet beyond my reach. Mocking me.

Roger Vivier

La rentrée

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There is not really a concept for the French rentrée in English. The Brits used to call it the beginning of the season, and Hallmark has turned it into Back to School in the US, but La Rentrée is not about school, it is about getting back to life, particularly a social life. After the long (in France, anyway) summer hiatus spent with family, everyone is back in town and ready to play. Businesses open their doors, parking spaces fill up, there is activity on the street AND the invitations start pouring in as cultural events go into full swing. The “season” has begun.

There is the Biennale antiquaires at the Grand Palais, Dali expo at the Pompidou, Parcours des Mondes at the galleries, FIAC, Dom Juan at the Comedie Française, Les Nuits Blanches, Journées de la Patrimoine and the list just goes on and on…

Today the excitement really began, when I received my very first ever invitation to Vogue’s Fashion Night Out. I have gone the past few years, but only thanks to friends and their extra invites. This year, it is My invite, in My name. I felt like Christmas had come early!!! Now, to get an invite, you really just have to be a client and this year I got a very special pair of shoes from a very special address (whose initials are NOT CL). You can also snag one by buying the Fashion Night Out edition of Vogue, so my invite is not really all that, but it makes me happy, all the same.

What do you do on Fashion Night Out and what exactly is it? Its just a glorified block party where fashion houses uncork the champagne until it flows out on the streets. Lots of young, gorgeous people are paid to show up and prance around in fabulous fashions to tempt the ridiculously rich, who are a sight to behold in their own right. If you’ve got the budget for plastic surgery, this is the place to come and collect names of which doctors do a fantastic, natural looking job for your senior years and which doctors you would like to hire for your ex’s 28 year old girlfriend’s boob job. Design students flock the streets wearing the most outrageous silhouettes to catch your eye and hoping to be ‘discovered’, or at the very least, score a spare invite.

Marketing fashion on fashion night

For me it is total eye candy and the people watching highlight of my year. I’ll be there with bells on. Perhaps even literally…

And if you’d like to join me, drop me a line, because I just got a second invite and I’d LOVE to share it with one of my faithful readers!!!

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